


much more than that

by bookhobbit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Bittersweet, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pining, Slow Burn, can a oneshot be slow burn? oh well, lord help me i'm back on my bullshit skeleton.jpg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 07:18:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13313160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: There is a phenomenon which Childermass thinks should have a name. It goes something like this: you learn the meaning of a new word, and suddenly the word is everywhere. You see it in books, and letters, on notices outside shops, on the dirty signs of yellow-tented magicians in Paris or London.Childermass is exceptionally good at controlling himself. In theory.





	much more than that

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest with you I really just wanted to write some Childerrell that had the sense of distance and yearning that I've always imagined in them, which I've never been fully able to capture. And I wanted to figure out how to write Norrell being as prickly as he really is, which I always struggle with, although I don't think it came up as much as I meant it to here. Why is it 4500 words? I don't know! But I haven't really written anything worthy of putting up on my profile in forever so here it is.
> 
> Not in continuity with anything else I've ever written.

Norrell's hands are soft, but calloused in odd places -- the sides of the fingers, the palms. Childermass often wonders what it would be like to take them in his own and feel out those callouses, trace the lines in the palms, look up and watch the effects appear on Norrell's face.

But that is not part of the bargain. Childermass is under no illusions about Norrell, who is a man with very manipulable ethics and very little regard for his fellow beings. For all that, though, there are things he would never ask of Childermass. His body is one of them. It is, Childermass thinks, a combination: perhaps there is some moral sense in there, a good deal offended propriety and, well, there is shame. A low and beastly thing for a gentleman to have so little restraint as to harass his servants about their duties. Nearly as low to want, to take.

Childermass would have given his body, if it would have helped; it would not be the first time. It is, after all, Childermass's own to use to further his goals. But it would have been on his terms if he had chosen to. Given in exchange, and not taken. For relative safety, responsibility, and a job in the warm, an occasional favor would be an acceptable price.

But, he thinks, he could never have respected Norrell after that.

It's very much to Childermass's own bemusement that he does, in fact, respect Norrell. Not for not harassing his servants, no; the bar isn't so low as that. It's more for the sheer bloody-minded persistence of the man. For hating the Raven King, for daring to try to practice magic on his own terms, for flouting his neighbors and the rest of high society. Childermass is a king's man, through and through, but he has a certain degree of perverse appreciation for anyone who will fly in the face of accepted canon.

Norrell is a mouse, afraid of his own shadow, afraid of his own heart, but he is a mouse with a strong dose of passion and a wide streak of contrariness. Childermass rather likes it.

This is what it comes down to: Childermass was prepared to offer his body in the service of his mission, and also prepared for the possibility that it would not be asked for. What he was not prepared for was his own desire.

This is what John Childermass knows: Firstly, Gilbert Norrell is an arrogant, fussy pedant without a particle of grace, beauty, or charm. Secondly, that he cares for no-one and nothing except for his books and his magic. Thirdly, that their alliance may be very long or very short, but that it will end, and perhaps end messily, given Norrell's own personality. Fourthly, that Norrell promised himself to something much greater than Childermass long before either of them met, but that promise had not been fulfilled, and that this disappointment had left him bitter, angry, and yet probably still marked for something interestingly terrible.

Fifthly, and most inconveniently, Childermass wants Norrell entirely irrespective of material benefit to himself.

Wanting, Childermass considers, is a liability. It only causes trouble.

That such a thing should suddenly awaken in him for a bitter curmudgeon ten years his senior is, quite frankly, mere injustice of the universe.

Childermass fully intends to let the want die, buried alive. He plans to go on as professional as usual, which is to say, thoroughly disrespectful in his manner but perfectly, respectably impersonal. After all, if he derives no benefit from it, it's not worth the risk.

That Norrell is a man of a certain type Childermass has no doubt. He knows, the way like always spots like, what Norrell's inclinations are. But the degree to which he has accepted those inclinations is uncertain, and beyond that, the degree to which he would wish to satisfy them with a young man of low birth and unfavorable countenance is an unknown quantity. Maybe Norrell likes them pretty. Maybe he likes them older, or richer.

So. Let the want die, and get on with your work, John Childermass.

-

There is a phenomenon which Childermass thinks should have a name. It goes something like this: you learn the meaning of a new word, and suddenly the word is everywhere. You see it in books, and letters, on notices outside shops, on the dirty signs of yellow-tented magicians in Paris or London.

Norrell is a new word that Childermass has just now learned the meaning of, and now he cannot stop seeing him.

It has taken effort, this learning. Norrell hides himself in corners, and stashes bits of himself away as if for a long winter. He blinks his little eyes suspiciously when asked questions, and mutters barely-audible answers. But day in and day out, Childermass has come to know him.

The trouble with knowing is that it makes you want to know more. Curiosity has ever been Childermass's pervading vice, and so he doesn't want to stop at knowing Norrell's secret opinions of the Raven King or his hatred of Belasis. He wants to know what Norrell would do if Childermass took his hand.

Of course, he can guess: shiver and draw back, certainly. Perhaps he would be offended, or perhaps he would be frightened. Perhaps he would want the touch to continue and yet would not dare to let Childermass take the liberty. What's certain is that he would not let Childermass continue.

Would he?

No. Childermass doesn't indulge in wishful thinking, _that_ is not among his vices.

To his immense disgruntlement, he discovers that he has no inoculation against wanting a _person_. He's had ambition, but he's never pined.

Well, he's not going to start now. Holding yourself steady against this, it's no different than growing used to the cold. If he had learned to make do with an old shirt and scraps of blanket when he was ten, he can learn to ignore this now.

A step at a time. See the fluttering of Norrell's hands and ignore the urge to watch them. Tie his neck-cloth, quash the fascination with the skin just above the collar, which looks so soft and tender. Bring in his tea and listen to the contented sighs, do not wonder about other contexts which could elicit sighs.

It is hard work, but no harder than any other job he's had, and anyway, for three meals a day, his own room, and an increasing degree of responsibility and trust, isn't it worth it?

-

His own strength can be counted on. He's always had to count on it. It's Norrell's moments of weakness that undo him most.

It's a particular moment of weakness that he knows will be the death of him.

They are standing in dining room, and Childermass is showing Norrell the household accounts, which he has recently taken over. The day is warm, and there is no reason for them to be standing closely together, because the account-book is in front of Norrell and Childermass is leaning over a little to show him something. Some small irregularity, which they quickly resolve.

Childermass's hands linger on the page. He is acutely aware of Norrell at his side: small, looking smaller still in dressing gown and sans wig, smelling of soap and skin and faintly of dust. Holding himself rigid, carefully away from Norrell, is making Childermass's arm just a little stiff. There is weak sunlight on the page, shining through the dining-room window, and he is just checking the last of the columns of figures he added up last night.

Norrell bumps against him, shoulder to shoulder.

A mistake, no doubt. Childermass's legs are not steady, swaying a little when he stands and walks. And Norrell's poor sense of balance makes him occasionally walk into bookshelves and doors and clocks, so for him to accidentally collide with Childermass is, really, not surprising. He has done it before once or twice.

But those times, he always drew back quickly. Here, now, for just two breaths too long, he lingers.

Childermass blinks, losing his place on the accounts. Against his side, the warmth of Norrell is already fading, but it lingers in his memory, a ghost of a sensation. He must be imagining it, surely.

Norell looks at him quickly, flushed a little. That is no surprise, even if it was an accident, because Childermass has known him to redden even when their hands brush reaching for a pen, and that is nothing.

Childermass doesn't speak, half-expecting Norrell to apologise, but he doesn't say anything either. The silence stretches on too long, with neither of them acknowledging it.

"It looks satisfactory," says Norrell finally. "There are no other problems?"

"No," says Childermass. "Nothing else."

In bed that night, he thinks about it for so long that he makes himself banish the memory in the morning.

-

The new word phenomenon is proving itself a persistent problem. Being touched for just a little too long has woken something up. A furtive watchfulness, a constant awareness of his body when Norrell draws close.

He tries not to encourage it. Of course, trying hard not to think of something is generally worse than useless.

Anyway, Norrell seems to deliberately avoid him in the coming weeks. When Childermass comes near, he moves away or twitches. This makes it easier, in theory.

Carriages are a problem. Infrequent, but a problem. A trip into town for the day is incipient; Childermass has been composing himself. Ordinarily they are accustomed to talk quietly, or sit in comfortable silence, but the awkward bumping of their knees necessitated by close quarters holds new dread now.

So much, he thinks, for suppressing it. He's starting to overthink everything.

Well. He manages the trip up. Norrell has brought a book, as usual. He complains of feeling ill halfway through.

"You shouldn't read, then," says Childermass. "You know it makes you feel poorly, in a carriage."

Norrell sniffs and puts the book away with bad grace.

"It's not _my_ fault," says Childermass.

"It's an inconvenience to have my studies disrupted," says Norrell, as if this isn't a regular event.

"Could have put it off another day."

"That would have been even more inconvenient."

"Well," says Childermass, "You'll just have to bear it, then."

It's a two-hour carriage ride, most of which they spend absorbed in other thoughts. Childermass sees Norrell reading again, and thinks, _on his own head be it._

The trip back, laden with packages, is easier because both of them are tired, so the tension is not so strong. Childermass wonders if he's been imagining it the whole time after all, manufacturing an explanation for his own difficulty in restraining himself.

The carriage goes over a particularly large bump. His knee knocks against Norrell's, and he doesn't move it.

It's nothing. A bit of contact that two strangers would expect to endure if traveling by coach. He's weary of being alive to these snips of touch, but he can't stop himself.

After the long journey back, Childermass alights from the carriage, wincing as his knees creak. He reaches a hand up and helps Norrell down.

Exhausted as he is, he's not careful enough. Norrell stumbles, knocks against him. Childermass's arm goes out and catches him round the waist, which keeps them both from falling but has the side effect of bringing back that alertness of his own body again.

Norrell, perhaps shaken, pauses a moment. Then he pushes Childermass aside and snaps, "Be _careful,_  will you!"

Childermass shrugs. "You could look out where you're going yourself."

"Bring the parcels," says Norrell, stalking inside. There's something more than the usual crankiness in his posture, something fearful, and Childermass shakes his head. If he's gone and made Norrell wary of their brief proximities, he's been doing a worse job of burying himself than he'd thought.

-

There's a little cupboard in the library where they keep some ink, spare paper, notebooks, the silver bowl in which Norrell casts spells.

Norrell is taking out the silver bowl, gazing at it sternly. Thinking of a new spell, Childermass supposes, with a sort of exasperated fondness. It doesn't do any good to disturb him in this mood, so Childermass reaches above him carefully for a new bottle of ink. He keeps his distance, very respectably.

"Childermass--" says Norrell, absently.

"Yes, sir?"

Norrell startles. Just like him not to be so focused on his task as to not notice Childermass's nearness. His shoulders stiffen; his fists clench just for a moment. It could be discomfort, and Childermass steps back and to the side a little, giving him room. He hasn't touched Norrell. He's been very careful.

Norrell lets out a breath. He must think Childermass still can't see his face from here. That's the only explanation for the brief expression of naked longing that passes across it. It's a frown of pain, and a flash of hope, followed by a swift shake of the head.

Then the eyes close, and when they reopen, there's no trace of it. Childermass knows better than to let his own posture tighten, though Norrell's face is still half-turned away. He controls himself.

"Get me some water from the river," says Norrell, his voice betraying nothing. Childermass could almost think he imagined it, but it's carved too vividly in his mind.

"Yes, sir," he says again. An excuse to get out of the room and compose his thoughts. He takes the basin and doesn't even ask Lucas, the footman, to go and fetch it instead. The cool air and the walk will do him good, right now.

That longing unleashes desires he's been holding back for a long time. Desires to show Norrell exactly what he's missing, to open him and explore him and pry out everything hidden. Coax out new feelings, things he hadn't thought possible. To be deliberate, to be bold.

Oh, God, for the ability to forget.

-

The simple fact is that he has to know. He needs to be sure of what is imagining and what is fact, so that he can once again control the situation. He's not going to force it, but...

He stops paying so much attention to shutting himself off, and starts paying attention to what Norell is doing, what flashes across his face when he happens to come close.

Once, they are taking tea, and Childermass reaches for the teapot at the same time Norrell does. Their hands collide, and Norrell freezes, his arm half-out, reaching.

Childermass look at him; he sees the fear, but it's not all he sees. There's that longing again. Their eyes meet, and hold for a second or two. Rare, from Norrell.

He draws back, puts his hands in front of him. Norrell takes the teapot, his hands shaking only a very little bit.

It could be nothing.

-

He is still not in control of the situation. He can feel himself beginning to watch too much, get tangled up in still more overthinking. He needs to either forget this, or be blunt.

Bluntness could cost him his job. Forgetting has so far proved impossible.

He sighs to himself. At night he thinks over the day's interaction, and tries to imagine what could have gone wrong, what was right.

So much for being sensible.

In fact he's scolding himself for taking leave of his senses when he runs into Norrell in the corridor coming out the library. He manages to dodge well enough that neither of them fall over. But now they're close again, and Childermass is tired of this, tired of second-guessing, tired of Norrell's sudden fits of fear, tired of half-hoping and squashing it. Right at this very moment, he'd damn well rather be fired.

Norrell doesn't move.

They stand in tableaux for several seconds, Childermasss's one hand on the wall and his other on Norrell's shoulder. Norrell's arms hang at his sides, balled into anxious fists again.

"It's not safe," says Norrell, nonsensically.

"What?" says Childermass. He begins to move back, but Norrell reaches out and catches at his coat, keeping him close, pulling him closer.

 _Not safe,_ thinks Childermass. With a twist of his mouth, _and I thought I'd buried this._ So much for safety. Well, if you're going to take risks, make them worthwhile. Make them count.

He meets the kiss halfway.

Their lips brush so gently it almost could be unintentional, but Norrell's hands are still clutched in the collar of Childermass's coat. Their noses bump just barely, so Childermass turns his head a little. Unwilling to scare Norrell off, he nevertheless risks pressing into the kiss a little. Norrell shivers--the way Childermass knew he would--and comes still closer, so that his chest is against Childermass's. Nothing unintentional about this.

They draw apart, slowly. Norrell swallows, and looks Childermass up and down.

"I--" he begins. If he apologises, this could all go very badly. What he says instead is, "It was a mistake."

"That's a pity," says Childermass. He hasn't let go of Norrell's shoulder, and he doesn't intend to for as long as Norrell is still standing there, dazed and red, his small eyes bright with something like fever.

Norrell says, "The corridor isn't safe, we could be seen."

"Come into the library, then," says Childermass.

"Yes," says Norrell.

-

Norrell calls it "taking liberties" at first; "We would be wiser to refrain from taking liberties in public rooms" is the sort of thing he says. Childermass isn't sure which of them is doing the taking. Public rooms are everything but the bedroom, which no one may enter without express permission, and the library, which cannot be found if Norrell doesn't want it to be.

Within these two rooms, there is enough liberty for both of them to take. But it must be done with tact. Norrell won't be bothered while studying, and Childermass's duties leave him unable to meet Norrell at night very often. So it must be fit into in-between times.

Tonight, he makes an effort to lock up early. There are no trips out, and no deliveries to be had. It is December, so everyone goes to bed early to spare their candles. Nobody to see.

Besides, he has the excuse of helping Norrell undress, which he does only sporadically, but enough to provide a cover. Small buttons really do trouble Norrell in the cold weather; his fingers grow stiff. They're stiff now as Childermass takes them and covers them with his own hands, blows them gently to warm them.

Norrell shivers. Childermass thinks of a desire that had surfaced long ago, and kisses the palms. He runs his thumbs over the fingers where they join the hand, turns them over and traces each knuckle. He kisses the wrists, where the blue veins show like roots in Norrell's arms.

Norrell makes a tiny noise and leans back against the bed. He is nightshirt-clad and now barefoot, and so even shorter than usual. It's an easy matter for Childermass to push him over so that he's sat, and an easy matter to kneel in front of him.

Norrell's hands _are_ soft, still a little cold despite Childermass's earlier efforts. He leans his head and kisses, very delicately, the join between thumb and fingers. He traces out the lines on Norrell's palms. He'd once known a chiromancer who'd showed him how to read the future in those lines, but he doesn't remember their meanings now. Anyroad, he'd never believed her above half.

Norrell, unexpectedly, takes his hands away. He touches Childermass's head with great care, runs his fingers through the hair that's come out of its halfhearted queue. His fingers find the bit of ribbon and undo it. No trace of stiffness now, Childermass notes.

"Bit informal, isn't it?" murmurs Childermass, looking up.

"When did you start worrying about formality?" says Norrell.

"Least of all in thy bed-chamber," says Childermass, daring still further informalities.

Norrell bites his lip and turns away, at the intimacy of the dialect or the innuendo. After a moment, his hands start moving again. They comb through Childermass's long hair, snagging in tangles of the day, tugging a little. Childermass closes his eyes and breathes. He is trying to make no sound, trying not to give away how much he wants Norrell to keep on doing this for fear that some perverse instinct of the universe will make it stop.

"It must be difficult to care for," murmurs Norrell.

Childermass quirks a corner of his mouth up. "I don't care for it."

Norrell tuts cenoriously, and tugs Childermass upward by his hair. He does not ask, but it's clear what he wants: Childermass kisses him. Fingers still in his hair, clutching tighter as Childermass deepens the kiss. His own hands are on Norrell's shoulders, bracing. He's embarrassed to need the steadiness, but he does.

Kissing Norrell always has faintly the feeling that Childermass imagines kissing in a church would have. A sacred place -- a little stuffy -- unsuitable for mischief and ill-fitted for closeness, but all the more thrilling for that. It satisfies something. Not just a desire for contact, but a desire to upset, to rearrange.

There's that, and there's the very small, breathless noises Norrell makes when they break apart briefly. The way his hands hold harder in Childermass's hair when Childermass bites just a little. The sense of power, even, of having Norrell caught between him and the bed, made biddable by his desire.

They part, and blink at each other.

"It's late," says Norrell, abruptly. He releases Childermass's hair, and he leans back, hands now propping himself against the bed.

"I should go," says Childermass, taking the hint and turning to go. His hair is a tangled mess now. If someone sees they could both be in danger, but he is skilled at not being noticed when he doesn't want to be.

"Don't--" says Norrell, reaching out and catching hold of his arm.

Childermass pauses and looks at him. Norrell's gaze slides down, redirects on the pillows. He bites his lip.

"Do you want me to stay?" says Childermass. Voice of a man with a pistol pointed at his heart, or one talking to a wounded horse that could kick at any moment.

"If it's a burden," says Norrell, a little sourly, "You needn't."

Childermass thinks, _you don't need to try and drive me away before you even convince me to stay,_  but he doesn't say it, because Norrell would only take offense. Childermass is presumably not expected to take offense, but then, he generally doesn't. Norrell's prickliness is all facade. Childermass finds it funny sometimes, frustrating others, but rarely offensive.

"I haven't got any clothes," he says.

Norrell shrugs. He rummages briefly in the ponderous chest of drawers and produces a nightshirt, which is rather too short for Childermass but will suffice for the night, if the cuffs are left open.

And so, he lays in Norrell's bed, which is far finer than his own and therefore feels foreign beneath him. They do not embrace. They lay back to back, just touching. Arm in arm is too much like lovers; for Childermass, a dangerous trap, and for Norrell, an unaccountable weakness. As it is, they can pretend to be strangers, like men sharing a flea-ridden inn bed because there is no other place to sleep. And yet, as it is, they can protect each other. Back to back, vulnerable side hidden.

Childermass doubts that Norrell thinks of it this way, but then, he's never quite sure what Norrell thinks about all this. They still have not spoken of it.

He lays in Norrell's bed, and he wonders how this strange arrangement will conclude. It doesn't please him to consider that it will, but Childermass - born a magician-hopeful long after the Raven King left, orphaned at twelve, not so long ago a sailor bound to go where the sea takes him - is accustomed to think of endings.

-

Sometimes Norrell will furiously rebuff him in the library, cringing from the merest contact and snapping if Childermass tries to draw near him. Then later at night, if Childermass comes along to the bedroom, he will draw him close with impatient hands. Push him onto the bed and hold tight to him, head in his shoulder. Or he'll kiss Childermass with a kind of fury, as if trying to make up for lost time.

Childermass has stopped trying to figure out what each mood signifies. It seems to come and go, according to Norrell's level of shame, physical discomfort, and amount of time apart from him.

Instead, he's careful to watch Norrell before he touches the small of his back or his elbow, to see how he reacts to closeness. He watches for flinches and draws back if he sees them.

In turn, Norrell unfolds himself a little and begins to reciprocate. At first it was necessary for Childermass to take any desired action, interpreting little huffs and imperious glances, but now Norrell sits beside him and nudges him with a shoulder. He will pull Childermass down to kiss him, or take one of his hands and examine it.

They still haven't spoken about what they're doing. Childermass doesn't think they will.

-

Outside the bedroom, business goes on. Norrell's shelf of notes grows and grows, and Childermass tells him airily that he ought to publish a book.

"Eventually," says Norrell, "but at the moment I am far too busy."

He's always too busy, but he lets Childermass read the notes--fidgets nervously and straightens a little when Childermass makes intelligent remarks.

This, too, is a type of intimacy.

Tonight, Childermass is writing letters as the dusk darkens around them. Norrell is rereading an old favorite, The Language of Birds.

In the quiet, Childermass watches him. He wonders if he should end this here and now. He could do it. Norrell would not disrespect his autonomy. But he might fire him to spare himself the humiliation of memory.

Childermass does not want it to stop. He surprises himself with the fierceness of it. And, contrarily, that's why he feels the need to. Wanting is still trouble, even if you get what you're after, because it gives them a lever.

Childermass finishes the letter, and sets it aside for Norrell to sign.

He won't end anything right now. There's still too much to do.

The fire crackles, casting warm light on Norrell's face. Soon they will rise and Norrell will make some remark about help, and Childermass go round and lock up the house and come back. He will stay with Norrell, perhaps even through the night.

For the moment, though, he is still. Still, but poised to move.

Childermass thinks that, no matter the circumstances of their parting, this is how he will always remember Norrell. Oblivious to everything but his books: looking at home, almost content. But with restlessness below the surface. Waiting for something neither of them can name, in a kind of suspended animation.

He hopes to stay to see that motion. He hopes to stay as long as he can. But endings do intrude, don't they.


End file.
